Five Times Caring Wasn't an Advantage
by Cyphane
Summary: ...And one time caring still wasn't an advantage, but Sherlock didn't mind.


A/N: So this is my first posted fanfic in three and a half years- whoo!

I'm a seat-of-my-pants sort of writer, so although I have the ending planned out, the bits in the middle are still kind of blurry. If you have any good ideas for the rest of the sections, put them in the reviews.

* * *

Nineteen-year-old Sherlock regains consciousness and immediately regrets it. His left temple is a smouldering knot of pain, flaring to fiery life every time he so much as twitches. His arms and legs, bound tightly to the chair, ache where they've yet to lose sensation.

For the moment he stays still, eyes shut, feigning unconsciousness while he takes stock of his surroundings. The insides of his eyelids are dim red - not much lighting. He smells a faint hint of damp and mold in the cool air.

Over his head, a man (cologne, the tell-tale rustle of expensive fabric - in civilian dress, interestingly, considering what Sherlock remembered of his abduction from campus) snaps out orders to the three - no, four - guards that surround him, and Sherlock notes the way his voice echoes with a touch of disappointment.

It's an abandoned warehouse, of course, dashing his earlier hopes of someplace exciting. A meeting in an _abandoned warehouse_. Utterly, _boringly_ unimaginative; Mycroft would approve, no doubt.

_And speaking of Mycroft_, Sherlock thinks, as he feels the cold circle of a gun muzzle descending to press against his head, _here he is now_.

"One would think that a man with such control over Britain's national security could protect his own brother better than this," the leader of the kidnappers remarks pleasantly in greeting, his voice raised and directed to a spot about twenty meters in front of Sherlock.

"I trust Sherlock is still alive?" Mycroft's voice sounds... odd, sharper than usual, but it might be just a trick of the warehouse's echoing acoustics. Either way, Sherlock doesn't have time to dwell on it, as one of the guards jabs hard at his rib cage with the muzzle of his gun. The motion sets off the pain in his head as well, and he doesn't have to fake the weak moan that escapes his lips.

"Alive, but perhaps not well," the leader says. "My guards hit our hostage on the head rather harder than strictly necessary, I'm afraid. All the more reason to conclude this business as quickly as possible."

Sherlock pays little attention on the rest of the conversation: all dull, predictable negotiations that he doesn't need cluttering up his hard drive. Mycroft will take care of everything, as usual; funny how his older brother can ruin even a kidnapping with his presence. (Admittedly, this wasn't a very exciting kidnapping, but at least it was better than listening to Seb Wilkes's drunken ramblings for another evening.) He listens only vaguely to the demands and counter-demands, the threats, the exchange of gunfire.

And then someone's at his side, cutting through the ropes holding him to the chair, and his eyes fly open as his stiff, uncoordinated body starts to slide off. Dimly, as sensation returns painfully to his limbs, he registers someone's arms holding him upright.

Mycroft's pale face hovers into view above him. "Sherlock, are you - no, just a graze, I see." Sherlock only then notices the additional line of stinging pain along the side of his head, which had been eclipsed earlier by his headache. One of his guards had managed to get off a shot, then.

It's bleeding quite a bit, as scalp wounds do, but hardly poses a threat to his well-being. The blood flowing down his hair and into his ear is definitely interfering with his hearing, though; Mycroft's voice sounds all... _wrong_, almost shaky. Sherlock's trying to wipe some of the blood out when shots ring out from a corner of the warehouse.

"There was another gunman in the back, where our sweep hadn't reached yet, aiming at the chair," one of Mycroft's men explains a few minutes later, as several others are hauling the corpses into body bags for disposal. "When she saw you come forwards, sir, out of the range of our protection, she couldn't resist the opportunity. It was a miracle neither of you were hit." He sounds almost reproving. _Brave man_, thinks Sherlock.

"Rather careless of you, brother dear," Sherlock chimes in, discomfort making him even more combative than usual. "Let your bodyguards do their jobs; you pay them for a reason." Mycroft, irritatingly, doesn't reply. "And," Sherlock continues stubbornly, nudging the corpse of the kidnappers' leader with his foot, "he had a point. I'm sure that, with _your_ resources, you can save me from further mandatory participation in your shadowy geopolitical games. Playing hostage is a _terribly_ dull way to spend my Friday evenings, and I can't imagine that Mummy will be pleased when she hears about this."

"I shall keep it in mind," Mycroft says blandly. (At least his voice is back to normal, Sherlock notes with an odd sense of relief.)

Later, when Sherlock is digging out listening device after listening device from cracks in the wall, he's forced to admit that he only has himself to blame.


End file.
